Circa
by Les Rallizes Denudes
Summary: horrendum diluvium.
1. Counterparts and Number Them

"Mhm. Sure. I'll call you later."

_Click._

The end of the phone call reminds me of the shithole I'm in.

This chair is too stiff, the air too smoky, and the atmosphere too dead. Monitoring a base I know nothing about. The job information barely let on- and I've signed a waiver for secrecy- I'm not allowed to discuss this sort of thing, honestly. The waiver is simply a formality, though. It's so hidden, this job is, there is nothing to talk about. Because I don't know what anything does, and how can one speak about things they know nothing of?

You don't know enough to know enough here, I suppose.

And if I wanted to talk, there would be the issue of talking to anyone. I have all of four coworkers in this area. I know no other staff aside from the supervisor and the guy who interviewed me for the job.

My nine-to-fives are staring at gauges and wasting time. I'm tired and want something more; I'm bored out of my fucking mind. That's the only reason I can comprehend even thinking about this.

"Hey."

One of my coworkers snaps me back from my malevolent stupor. I swivel in the chair to meet him. He's not very old, maybe in his 40's, but he's already balding. His eyebrows are thick and curved and he always seems to have as much as a disinterested look as I do, if not more.

I draw a blank at his identity for a brief moment, then it all comes back to me. His last name is LeBlanc, he's divorced and living comfortably. I recall thinking during one particular stretch of nothing that he smelled faintly of gasoline.

"Do the input readings look any different to you, HVD?" He says, and I cringe at the statement. Even if it's simply my initials, I've never been taken well to anything that wasn't simply my name. Furthermore, the idea of a 40 year old man calling me by a nickname doesn't sit well.

My friends say I'm petty. I don't blame them.

"HVD?"

I breathe in, exhale loudly, and turn around to the displays. Reading these screens don't come easy, and right now my mind is drawing blanks. I can see the numbers, charts, lines and diagrams, but can't make heads or tails of them.

I feel data dyslexic.

"Everything looks fine on my end."

LeBlanc grounds his teeth loudly. "Pretty strange, it looks weird. Maybe it's not refreshing quick enough or I'm ahead with the info."

I sigh, a thousand fantasies running through my head about putting my fist through the monitor. "Yeah, maybe I'm behind."

LeBlanc grounds his teeth again.

And again.

And again and again and again and again and again.

And again. I can hear it, and it's drilling into my temple. _Cracking_ and popping and _krrrsh_-ing.

"Hey, can you fucking quit that?" I snap, maybe putting too much venom into my voice- but then again I don't care- and shutting my eyes. "I don't mean to be an ass, but it's pretty damn loud."

It continues. I swivel back around to face him- he does not return the favor.

His head is too busy being crushed by the hand of an alien.

I hear his skull crack, break, fracture... And ground.

Immediately kick back to the wall, letting the seat roll to the farthest point of the room. More of these hulking sauropods enter, with backwards looking legs and their mouths... Jesus fuck. Another co-worker echoes my thoughts.

By screaming. Her vocal cords have to had been torn, damaged or worse. I felt it more in my chest than in my ears, honestly. It only lasts a few seconds, in between one of these intruders producing a strange plasma blade-shaped object.

I couldn't see it all too well because it was impaled in the woman very quickly.

Two more advance on me, dwarfing me by feet. I'm in the corner, crouching, staring wide eyed. One gives a quizzical tilt of his many-toothed face. The other says something I can't hear because of the alarms ringing.

The one on the left reaches out towards me and

* * *

everything is pretty murky now. i promise business will pick up. i hope so, anyway. stay tuned.


	2. Room a Thousand Years Wide

my eyes snap open, and the first thing I notice is the speaking.

Chanting something that's still foreign to me as my brain bashes around in my skull and my eardrums pop. Everything is blurry, and I'm overcome with a tremendous pain right underneath my left eye.

My head has been used for target practice, I muse.

That puts things in perspective a little better.

I move from a prone position to a kneeling one, body creaking. My thoughts range from how long have I been out to what could have put me out this badly to why, exactly, was I unconscious in the first place?

Right. The intruders.

Big hulking beasts with metallic armor and a strange, many-jointed grin. Resembling something in a shoot-em-up . My mind draws, no, fires blanks for maybe a minute. Then I start to realize what's going on.

"No. No, no, gods above, fuck no."

Then I'm sitting on my ass again, curled up, hugging my knees to my chest and staring outward at the world through matted hair and bloodshot eyes.

You never care about the war until it's taken to you, I've noticed.

Slowly inch myself to the corner of this room. Looks to be a closet. Very thin walls, because I can hear events taking place outside.

Voices. Deep and foreign ones over panicked ones. A rhythmic wet cracking noise in between a gun going off and a neck being snapped. Everything seems to fade into perspective. Suddenly, I can hear.

"May the Great Journey await you,"

_Crack._

"May your enemies writhe in a thousand hells,"

_Pop. Crack._

"And your line continued forward, and gain honor,"

_Crack_. Wet pop. _Krrsh._ Gurgling.

"May your scattered body go, beyond the limits of your mind."

Screaming. _Crack._

"Beyond the limits of our worlds."

Crying. Pleading. Moaning. _Crack._

"To the places our ancestors dream and sang of," crrrack, "And the Prophets speak of."

_Crack._

Footsteps. Handle twisting.

I can't go out like this.

Struggle to my knees, shaking like a sturgeon on land. Left eye fogging. No tears, wipe them from my face.

I watch the door open, slowly, creaking as if to taunt me. It only takes moments, but it feels too much like eternity.

Face to face with a monster towering above me. Blue eyes that are too bright to be natural seem to pick me apart, analyzing. A four-hinged mouth contorted in an emotion I couldn't identify. I had seen these types on war films, propaganda and newscasts, but now, face to face, I feel horrifically unready.

This staredown seems to last forever.

Somewhere I read if you're scared of someone there is an equal chance they're scared of you.

Frankly, I think the writer might have been full of shit.

Then a noise like gears turning, and my sight glances to an extremely large weapon in the alien's grip. And it speaks, in a deep, male, but ultimately artificial-sounding voice. It's not comforting.

"May the Great Journey await you," he begins.

Wait.

This creature is going to end me.

"May your enemies writhe in a thousand hells," Do I detect pity in the delivery?

I don't want to die.

No, I croak. Not loudly enough to stop the prose.

"No," I say again, my voice harsh, hoarse, and surprising even me.

The alien is trying not to show it, but his voice cracks and he pauses for a brief moment, clearly surprised.

"A-and your line-"

No. I'm to my feet, though clearly he still dwarfs me. "No," I say again. "I don't want to die."

A moment passes. I reconsider my choice of words.

"I will not die."

And just like that, he has taken a step back. Bigger, stronger, armed and facing a wounded intern, and he stares at me in part disbelief and part admiration.

"You do not know what we are capable of, human," he begins, tension hung in the air. It's not much, but even knocking him off his tangent gives me hope. "The covenant does not play favorit-"

"I don't need your fucking mercy kill," I say. Knees quivering and I'm limp and bent over and tired and can't make anything out of one eye but I feel almost enraged at this point. "I won't take it. If I die, I will go down fighting."

The alien doesn't reply.

Just raises his gun.

I'm in the line of fire of what I think is the barrel, trying to look him in the eye. I expect any second for the world to go dark. I stare at him and his gun, and I don't even know what my expression is.

He takes the gun and løwers it.

* * *

where am i even going with this?


	3. Cross Out the Eyes

I used to walk with men.

I'm not exactly sure, but I'm surviving. The sangheili didn't kill me. He was just as nervous as I was.

Similar in a lot of ways. Young. Bored, looking for something, anything, and in way too over our heads. When we got our wishes, we couldn't handle them. Not that we could. The moment is there, you can't run away from it or avoid it. Even if we don't put ourselves there.

Life has a different plan for all of us, even if we don't want it. I don't want it. But it's become readily apparent what I want and what I get are two very different things.

* * *

The elite disobeyed orders. He ended up being ostracized, nearly executed before it was considered a waste of time and resources, then reversed face and disemboweled the alien right before my eyes.

In a way I got him killed.

While I've grown to hate the covenant, that was a terrible feeling, that something so final and irreversible caused by myself though I had no intention to. No intention to go to work that day and end up with an alien occupation and near slaughter on my hands.

And yet his decision, his insubordination went unturned.

I have come to been grateful for Seska 'Saromee. At best, the sangheilian occupants here tolerate me because I keep things running. I can talk to Seska; he's the only living creature that hasn't taken me for granted. He respects me in a way for standing up and refusing to accept death, almost like a true warrior of his kin. My blind idiot gambit has at least impressed one of them here, and actually carrying conversations that didn't involve commands or just being insulted has kept me sane. Or hopeful.

Of the two I don't think I would pick either.

I'm sort of an enigma here. Something between a pet, a martyr, a servant and a burden. They keep me around. As a technician, somewhat. They've taken the base, but it's no good without someone to make it work.

Did I mention base?

Turns out my secret little job was only a small part of a military complex. Missiles. Guns. Molten steel. Radiation.

After what has transpired this revelation didn't surprise me as much as I thought or expected it to be. I don't understand why. I feel numb at times and grossly oversensitive at others.

I'm the one to keep it going, to keep the assets the way they were, that made them so valuable to siege and obtain in the first place. A troubleshooter, perhaps.

Funny that I'm at a lower point at this "job" that I was in my previous career. Wake. Rations if I'm lucky. Scurry around like a rat, making sure this is working and that is conforming to standards. All of this on still-healing legs and a bum eye. Then retiring to my makeshift cell, near solitary confinement if not for Seska visiting and trying to drown my sorrows by delving into books. Pretending for a much better life.

Drowning in the workforce is universal, it seems.

The door opens, and it's Seska, in time for another visit. He's still towering over me, but his body language in flux. We don't usually talk for long; but he keeps me updated. UNSC has cut off the complex from damn near everything, but haven't moved in on it.

"Seska?"

"Henrik."

The words are still foreign to him, but I don't really care. The general perception here is that a typical covenant conversation is comprises of worts and fucking nonsense, which clearly isn't the case. Furthermore, a conversation is a conversation.

It occurs to me there's been a veritable silence in between these thoughts.

"How are you doing?"

I get a quizzical tilt of the head from him first, but Seska obliges. "I am in good physical and emotional condition," he says. Might have completely missed the point, but it's a start. "Likewise?"

"Uh, yeah, likewise. Eyes closed and smiling and trying to make myself as "innocent college student" as possible, which is hard to do with an orbital bone pressured in one of your eye sockets. "A little banged up. A little scared."

Before he can respond (though he had already began to give a second confused tilt of his head to the other side) I straighten up and try to look nonchalant. "Anything new happened?"

"The northeast sector of the building has been compromised due to unknown circumstances." Seska paused, maybe still going back to what I said earlier. "That wing of the complex has sustained large damage."

More work, I think. It's petty to still have fears of the daily grind after what's happened, yet I still fear becoming an office drone. I want to be free.

Right?

For the workforce, drowning: someone teach me how to swim.

"Oh, okay," I say casually, and it occurs to me I've been sitting in the middle of this little makeshift cell with my knees hugged to my chest, and it makes me feel pitiful. Then I realize I look pitiful, which drives the point home. "When should I report in for repairing that?"

"You can't."

Though I'm no expert at reading alien eyes and four-pronged mouths I see a measure of sympathy in the sangheili's expression. Is it for me? Or-

"Something wrong?"

Then it dawns on me.

"Wait, isn't the northeast section occupied by you guys? I remember cleaning up there and there were plenty of elit- I mean, Sangheili."

He just stares at me, and another silence hangs like a man in the gallows. Seska finally speaks.

"They're all dead."

* * *

i think i'm done tablesetting. 


	4. Enfilade

Today, I'm tasked with collection and disposal. By nature, collection and disposal is another term for picking up someone else's belongings (mostly trash) when they don't feel like doing it themselves. Today, however, I don't loathe their unwillingness- today we're taking away the corpses from the northeast compound.

That is why Seska, several Elites I don't know the names of, and I are huddled in this blood-stained corridor, none of us willing to make the first move. For them, I imagine the hesitation to include the idea of carrying out the bodies of their fellow soldiers and friends, but I am wary because-

* * *

"Van Dam?" One of the elites say, expectantly, but the edge in the voice that my captors usually use have disappeared, making it more like a request than anything. None of us want to be here, and it shows, between the awkward shuffling, silence and staring down at the floor.

Which is wet in bodily fluids.

* * *

Some time passes where nothing of value is done. It's almost like home again.

"Right," I say to no one in particular, trying to work up the wherewithal to open the door already.

Hand reaching for the door. Hovering. Shaking. Why is my hand shaking?

Why am I shaking?

It dawns upon my peers that being shown up by a headcase half-blind beat up runt human captive is not the way to go about things, and before I can move I am brusquely shoved out of the way. I stumble and lose my balance, unable to see much aside from blood-soaked floor tiles.

First thing I heard from one: "Move."

Second: the door frame sliding open.

Third, from another elite: "By the prophets."

I roll back to my knees, groping wildly for something to hold onto. Grab what I think is a belt loop, moments later I'm back on wobbly legs. Knees nearly buckle when I see what's inside what's left of the barracks.

Bodies mutated beyond recognition, contorted to impossible-looking angles, and flesh warped like clay. I can't make out where one body ends and another begins.

Another uncomfortable silence. No one quite knows how to respond to this. I feel nausea sweeping over. Shut my eyes and think of something different, something more than this. I'm greeted with a visual of more rotting, human corpses with bullets through heads and plasma through brains and eventually, my own face with maggots through eyesockets and where did that come from?

I think back to something I said weeks ago: I'm tired and I want something more.

I'm tired and I want something less.

"Well," I say to no one in particular. "Let's get started."

I don't even convince myself; my voice wavers and cracks like my stiff bones seem to do each morning in captivity.

Moving what's left of the bodies is not an easy task. Sangheili are big, heavy bastards, and lugging about dead weight doesn't help either. I considered asking for help, but decided against it- all the Elites here seem to be occupied (and shaken) enough, and Seska is simply staring intently at the mass of flesh before him.

And for a moment, the monotony is staggering, and I don't know why. My fingers grip into the body I'm holding a little tighter. I feel tendrils wrapping around me. Tired. Frustrated. Confused. Tired. An overwhelming coldness sweeps over my body and I feel tired and everything I see looks a little more dark and washed out and I feel tired and I can hear a buzzing noise an-

I jerk back with a yelp, feeling something loosen around me. I'm alert and terrified instead of tired and relaxed. I fall down, bumping my head against the ground, and I notice the cold sweat literally moving around me at the slightest notion.

"What are you doing?" Hisses one of the creatures above me. Everything is blurry and hyperfocused at the same time.

Still getting my bearings together.

"I feel sick," I croak.

"What has afflicted you to the point of-" it's Seska now, voice ringing far-away even though he can't be far away. I hear him cut off mid-sentence. A scream that I can feel more in my chest than hear in my head. A groan. A wet, surprisingly organic _swshh_ing noise that seems to work up a wave of bile in my throat that I struggle to keep down. Another stunned silence. Look up at what used to be an elite, now morphing and seemingly terraforming its own body.

Then, from a cracking, whistling voice from the living tumor in front of me: "Get out."

* * *

i need to get to a computer more often, because writing this via iPod is obviously showing. Um, stay tuned, I guess.


	5. Last Call

I'm already in the doorway before it registers what exactly I'm doing. I see a a corridor full of grey walls and painful flooring. Something behind me slithers- I can somehow hear the skittering of dead flesh across the carpet over foreign yells and gunfire. Every step seems to send a chill down my spine.

I crash down the hallway, moving faster and more dangerously than any other time in captivity. Tendons flex for the first time in days, bones pump like pistons, and all my brain focuses on is escape.

I slow down at the intersection where this complex splits off into different area. I've never given it a good look, and there isn't a better time than when I don't have time for slowing down.

To the left: pristine white walls, bright green stripes, and a room with a view.

To the right; Another hallway, rusted and aged. A light flickers and farther down an elite howls about what, by the forerunners' names, is going on.

Behind me: More fleeing aliens, which I'd find comedic if not for the flood of reanimated disfigured corpses swarming after them.

Salvation is forward. I hope.

The head start I gave myself proves instrumental in escaping. I can't keep up the blistering pace, but I still have a healthy lead over the elites behind me and the creatures past them. I let myself look backwards for a moment.

The floor seems to be flooding over with skin. Strange, crippled creatures, all a sickening shade of brown, amble after the Sangheili, spiderlike and demonic. If meeting the Sangheili for the first time was akin to meeting a monster, what lies behind me is beyond comprehension.

The elites aren't fighting as much as retreating while occasionally firing back. I catch sight of one who's stopped altogether, swinging wildly with his sword of plasma. No one pauses to help when the largest mutated creatures- as tall as the Elites- reach him. They wrap around him, using claws and horns and teeth and whatever parasitic skills they contain. The lone Sangheili's eyes are wide with fear, and he's madly swinging to no avail- he'll dismember a limb and it starts moving on its own accord or regenerate. He looks in my direction, and for a split second we may have locked eyes.

Then he lets loose a guttural, primal, vocal-cord ripping scream of terror as he's torn asunder. I see blood, organs ripping, vessels popping and chunks of muscle as the gore spills out. The body disappears beneath the wave, twitching, still struggling.

I stare agape at the flood now in pursuit.

It's coming for me.

I give an about-face and try to run again, but I'm not in peak physical form. Every step seems to pull something in my legs, and it's not long before my legs seem to wade through quicksand. I don't look behind me- the terror and chaos in front of me is enough. Unknowing Sangheili soldiers fire upon the wave, unaware of what's going on or what's in store for them.

I can't, and won't, outrun these things.

I need to hide...

Then I think- the cell.

Hard right. Nearly lose my footing, but I'm still going. Head on a swivel, looking for anything but those creatures.

I don't even think this is the right door. Grip the knob. Turn it. Throw it open.

I throw myself into the room, gasping for air. Shut the door behind me. Lock it. Drag a lying chair in front of it as a barricade. I hear... Things snapping and popping just outside. Wet, sloshing noises. Yelling. It all starts to blend into one another.

Bang!

Something is thrown against the door.

It holds shut, but I yelp in surprise. Then shut up and listen- the noises seemingly fading.

The chaos has moved on.

After being convinced that they're gone, I slump to the ground, lying on the floor in the middle of this little room.

I begin to cry.

This isn't what I wanted. Was it? I wanted something more and got it, but I feel as trapped as I did before. Like I still don't have any control.

But I just saved my own life. That counts, right?

I'm so tired...

I have to stay awake.

Do I?

I don't want to be a sitting duck if those things come back. Can't sleep. Can't sleep. Can't sleep. Can't...

I want to go home.

I

I has a beautiful dream. I thought it was beautiful.

We're crashing down and burning out with every word you say.

We're burning through the atmosphere and we hope...

We're crashing down and burning out with every word you say.

This is pain draped in excellence, and there's no way to bury it.

I awake resolute and numb. Remains of a fire all around me. The smell of death in the air. Everything seems to be covered in ash and layered in fog.

My mouth is dry. Eyes red. Nose running, ears bursting, senses brought to their limits. I close my eyes. I just see more death.

Open my eyes again.

Close them.

I'm tired...

"This one's breathing."

What was that?

A light shines in my eye, white-yellow and violently bright. I can't look away, so I try to shut my eyes, but my eyelids are obstructed. I can feel the caress of latex gloves splitting my optics open to see the world and for the world to see.

I blink several times.

"He's responding," the voice says again. Female. Familiar. Human.

"How the hell did he survive this?" A male voice from a location I can't pinpoint.

"If you don't hurry, this kid won't."

Woman. Young, green eyes that seem to simmer, brown hair tied back in a ponytail. A scar above her left cheek. Medical kit at her side.

The most beautiful thing I've seen in weeks.

I crane my neck over to see what looks like armed forces and first responders clearing the wreckage. For a split-second I spot a tall man clad head-to-toe in green armor before he seems to be swept up like the Sangheili did.

A croak escapes from my lips. The woman eases me into a sitting position. She remains quiet as she checks my vitals and consults her handheld assistant.

I want to cry out, but all I can really say is, "What?"

"The Flood, kid." Same man. Black, graying hair, military style. "Nasty buggers."

I feel sick.

_circa_


End file.
